Lottery
by Timewave Zero
Summary: Community Service will grate on anyone after 6 thousand years. Death has had enough. Eloping to Earth with the rest of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse he'll barter his return to Heaven in exchange for a happy ever afterlife. Please Enjoy, read and review!


Saturday meant just one thing to Steven Flack…

For years he had played the National Lottery, the nations premier method of taxation for those that were bad at math. And now, sitting alone in his council flat, glass of red wine in one hand, ticket clutched tightly in the other, he wished he'd paid more attention in class.

Statisticians would have him believe that there were 14 million or so combinations of possible numbers for tonight's draw; in essence a 14 million to one chance of waking up tomorrow a millionaire. But then again, statisticians would also have him believe that six out of seven dwarfs were not Happy. So Steve never took much notice when it came to the odds. He preferred risk in his life. He believed in the structure of chaos. He liked taking risks. So this Saturday, just like the incalculable Saturdays that had preceded it, he had chosen to risk one more of his hard earned English pounds on another Lottery ticket.

So far, four of his numbers had come up. The glass of wine in his hand threatened to be overwhelmed by his shaking hands, being held so tightly it might shatter at any given moment. His breathing had stopped, as if the mere act of it would somehow hamper the outcome of the forthcoming number. His head and ears ached from the rush of blood coursing through his veins as the adrenaline rush of hormones veered around his body, making it feel as if his brain was throbbing. The hairs on his arms stood up one by one as if all the air around him had suddenly become electrically charged with an unseen energy. Outside, the everyday happenings of the wider world had ceased to be, as if all the cosmos was holding it's breath in anticipation of this next moment; the eyes of the universe focused on the events of room 23 in the borough of Slough's finest council estate property.

The next number was drawn…he had it.

_My god, this is it__…_

His knuckles had turned white; gripping the lottery ticket so tightly that the paper had began to crease. Time around him had slowed to a crawl. The flashing images on the television screen barely moved. He could hear the announcer call the number, but the voice sounded as if it were being broadcast through a vacuum. All he could focus on was his ticket. He didn't dare look at the television anymore; he was suddenly as equally fearful of the prospect of winning as he was losing. Fearful of what it would mean for the rest of his perfectly ordinary and mundane existence.

Five numbers. It seemed too good to be true.

He forced himself to focus his mind back on the television, back on the machine that was of this moment deciding his very destiny. The final number…

_YES!_

All his numbers had come up. He attempted to swallow but his mouth was bone dry, his throat like granite. His heart was racing faster than it ever had before. The whole room was spinning. His chest was aching from the excitement, his left arm had began to hurt, pain shooting up and radiating toward his neck. He was so light headed he thought he might faint…

Steve slumped onto the sofa, his chest suddenly on fire. _What's happening? _His arm felt like it was in a vice. He felt extremely sick…_Must have got over excited…_Before he had been holding his breath in anticipation, now he forced himself to breathe. The effort of such a simple task overwhelmed him, his body exerted. His fingers, previously numb as a result of his possessive grip on the ticket, now became alive with the tingling sensation of pins and needles. His heart, pounding furiously mere seconds ago now stuttered irregularly.

His head was spinning…The room of his one bedroom council flat became an altered landscape; his vision blurring, he suddenly saw the world as if he were looking through a puddle of dirty water. Then a deep blackness began to form around the edges of his sight…he was losing consciousness…_My god, the pain, make it stop!…_His entire body felt as if it were being compressed in a trash compacter. He couldn't go on like this…

_Make it stop!_

Then, suddenly…it did. His vision returned. He could breathe again. He felt no pain. The world around him shot back into focus.

"What the heck was that about?" he uttered to himself, letting out a relieved laugh as he did so. The winning lottery ticket had fallen onto the floor and he bent over to retrieve it. His fingers closed around the ticket…and passed straight through the paper.

"Not so easy when you're dead…"

The sound of another voice in the room startled him, and he shot to standing. In front of him, seated in one of the room's reclining chairs sat a hooded figure garbed from head to toe in jet black robes. Clutched in it's hands and resting against it's shoulder stood a long, hooked scythe. The hooded cowl of the robes obscured all image of a face, if indeed this dark apparition possessed a face.

"My god, who are you?" enquired Steven, his voice audibly trembling.

"Relax, man. Don't be so scared. It's the robes right? Or the scythe? I only use them for effect, it's cool…"

"What are you…"

"Isn't that obvious?"

"What the hell is going on?"

The hooded creature stood up, letting out a long sigh. Propping its scythe up against the chair it had just vacated, it then began to slowly walk toward him. Steve backed away, terrified of this ghostly intruder, and found himself walking through the sofa.

"Holy crap!"

The demon figure let out a guttural laugh.

"What's happened to me? Who are you?" asked a terrified Steve.

"You're dead pal. And I'm here to reap your earthly soul."

"I'm…dead? I can't be dead…"

"He says, after walking through his couch and coming face to face with the Grim Reaper."

"The Grim Reaper?"

"Come on man, doesn't the whole look give it away? The robes and the scythe? I'm not wearing this crap for _my_ benefit."

This was all a little too much to take in.

The creature stood before him, and although Steve could not perceive it's face, he sensed it was growing impatient.

"Look dude," the Reaper continued, "I've got an Earthquake in India in a couple of minutes so if we could hurry this along? I've got a real busy night ahead and this isn't helping."

"You…you're Death?"

"Yeah, and you're _dead_, congratulations. Now come on, lets go."

"Go? Go where?"

The Reaper sighed. "Heaven."

"I'm going to Heaven?" Steve could have cried if he still had tear ducts. Wow…it's real! Heaven was real and he was going!

"Not so fast chief. Heaven yes. But I can't guarantee that you'll stay there."

"I…eh…come again?"

"You've got to be judged first. By Saint Peter. Or, if you don't fancy your chances, _don't_ come with me, and spend eternity haunting this crappy flat as a ghost."

"What do you mean, "judged?" enquired a worrying Steven.

"Christ, give me strength," muttered the Reaper. "I take it you never went to church as a child? Ever read the Bible? _Quick_ version then…You die. I reap your soul, where it travels with me to Heaven to be judged at the steps of the Pearly Gates by Saint Peter. If you've led a rich, rewarding and largely sin free life, well then congratulations, because it's an eternity of harps and angels and cities amongst the clouds. If not…well. You go the other way. Sometimes at least…"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, occasionally souls who have sinned are offered a choice for redemption. You do 'community service' to work off your sin and earn that happy ever afterlife."

"I see…"

"No, you don't, and I've spent enough time indulging you, it's time for us to go. Or, if you prefer the fourth option you can stay here in Limbo, haunting this world; eternally existing between this earth and the next, forever shouting but never being heard, forever watching but never being seen, unable to interact with the ones you left behind until finally you're forgotten forever, nothing more than a faded memory of what once lived, lost in shadow until the Last Day of God's Judgement."

"You've said that speech before haven't you?"

"It's _that_ obvious?"

"Yes, and remarkably eloquent for someone who has no lips."

"Indeed, but I never said I had a skull for a face did I?"

"But, you're Death right?"

"How astute of you, yes I am."

"Then, your face? Your body? Just what do you look like exactly?"

"Well, what do you think? I prefer the mystique that goes with the whole legend to be honest. The reality is not so exciting. Or scary for that matter."

"Can you show me?"

"Look pal, I would love to indulge you had I the time, but please, make a choice: stay here or come with me. Normally I'd try to scare you into joining me, hence the outfit, and incidentally I am on a commission for the amount of souls I successfully reap, so it's in both our best interests for you to just shut up and do what I say. Just trust the strange man in a hooded robe with the scary weapon. Now no more questions and let's get out of here."

The Reaper reached into the dark recesses of his blackened garment, and pulled out what seemed to be a mobile phone.

"Is…that a mobile phone?" asked an incredulous Steve.

"What? Oh, yeah it is. Just shush up a moment."

"Is it an iPhone?"

"What? No! Well, I wish. Heaven is a bit old fashioned when it comes to technology. And music. The best music can be found in Hell believe it or not. I've never been one for all that classical stuff. I'm more of a heavy metal rocker."

"Yeah, a mate of mine is in to that stuff too. He's got a fair few tattoos of you and your face adorning his body if I recall."

"Very funny. Now please, I'm on the phone."

Steve never imagined that coming face to face with the grim spectre of his own demise would be quite like this. The Reaper held the phone to the side of his cowl. Steve couldn't help but notice the Reaper's hand…it looked…well, human.

"Pete?" the Reaper asked whoever was on the other end of the celestial connection. "It's me. Yeah, I got another one. The heart attack? Yeah, I know, killing him just as he'd won the lottery? _Inspired_…" the Reaper laughed. "Yeah, open the gateway would you? Peace." The conversation concluded. And the mobile which wasn't an iPhone retreated back into the Reapers dark pockets.

"So what now?" asked Steve.

"Now? Well, you shut up for a minute, stop asking questions, and just watch…"

Suddenly a bright beam of light erupted in the middle of the room. The ceiling seemed to come away, revealing a beautiful blue sky. The beam of light narrowed and stretched far up into the wide blue yonder, but Steve could not make out it's source. In the middle of the light an elevator appeared on high and begin descending rapidly toward the room.

"Is that what I think it is?" enquired a startled Steve.

"Yep," replied the Reaper. "We got rid of the Stairway years ago. I'm glad too, because you would not believe how many of the newly dead used to joke to me about that _Led Zeppelin _song.

"What about the 'Highway to Hell?'" Steven asked smugly, evidently quite proud of himself.

"Now how did I know you'd bring that up? Smart arse. There is no highway. Just an elevator. And an express train. _If You Want Blood You've Got It_…"

"Pardon?"

"_If You Want Blood You've Got It. _It was the B-Side to the release of _Highway to Hell. _I told you I was a Metal fan."

"That you did…"

The elevator had reached the flat and softly came to a halt in front of Steve and the Reaper. The doors slid open to the sound of bells chiming sweetly. From within the confines of the elevator sprung depressingly cheerful music. Steve was not impressed. He was dead; no sounds, no matter how pleasant would change that. He suddenly hesitated… The Reaper's body language suggested annoyance. "Mate, seriously get in will you? I'm on a break after this job and I only get twenty minutes! Come on champ, hop on in, time's a wasting. Get a move on or I'll drop you off at the wrong floor."

Steve and the Reaper entered the elevator. Death reached out a bony but flesh covered finger and pressed one of the three buttons that dictated the lifts destination. Steve looked at the buttons:

HEAVEN

EVERYWHERE ELSE

HELL

The Reaper spotted his gaze. "Aren't you just over-awed by the simplicity of it all?"

Steve kept quiet.

The doors slid shut and the lift rapidly ascended. The journey took place in silence; neither Steve nor Death saying a word.

Within seconds the elevator came to a halt, and the doors slid open to reveal a room of complete white. The room was small and cramped, and sparsely occupied save for a desk at its centre and a decorative plant in the right hand corner. Above the desk, engraved on the far wall were golden letters bearing the legend: WELCOME TO HEAVEN. Sat behind the desk was a frumpy looking middle-aged woman in gold-rimmed spectacles, typing frantically on a laptop computer. Death began walking toward the women and beckoned Steve to follow.

"Hello Gladys." The Reaper addressed the woman in a jovial tone. "How are you today?"

"Can't complain," she muttered in response, never looking up from her computer. "And if I could, who'd listen?"

"Right you are." Death turned to address Steve. "Don't mind Gladys. She's been sat behind this desk for nearly two millennia now without a break."

"I could take a break if you were a bit more efficient…" she mocked Death coldly.

"Don't blame me for your community service Gladys, we're all in the same boat."

"Whatever," she snorted derisively.

"Anyway, this one is Steven Flack. Can you send his file over to Pete?"

"Do I tell _you _how to do _your_ job?"

Death sighed and led Steve behind the desk where a door had inexplicably opened beneath the welcome sign.

"Two thousand years of community service will grate on you after a while," he said. "Gladys is one of the lucky ones. She's not been doing it nearly as long as me."

"Wait a minute," interrupted Steve, "Your role as Death is some sort of community service? In Heaven? Why?"

"Do you ever listen? Like I said, not everyone gets into Heaven. But not everyone goes to Hell either. If you committed sin during your life, sin that would warrant an eternity in fiery torment, you can opt instead for community service. In doing so you earn your way into Heaven."

"So what sin did you commit?"

"That my friend, is none of your business. Just know that it in no way warrants the punishment I must now endure; catering to you newly dead and your banal questions for all eternity. And as for how long I've been at it? Six thousand years, give or take."

"That's a long time…"

"You don't say? And know this: a second on Earth is a lifetime in Heaven. Forget whatever concepts of reality and time you thought you knew when you were alive. They don't exist here."

The door that had opened led down a long corridor of light; at it's end another room appeared, this one much, much larger and full of people. Steve estimated a couple of hundred at least, all lined up in a snaking queue. At the front of the room stood massive imposing gates; pearly white and guarded by two luminous beings with flaming swords. To the left of the gates and sat at a podium that resembled those found in a church, was a small white haired man with a long, wispy beard.

The floor Steve stood on felt firm, but was drenched in a layer of fog that swirled hypnotically round his ankles. The sky was the clearest sapphire blue he had ever seen.

"What's going on?" asked Steve.

"Welcome to the Gates of Heaven!" the Reaper answered. "It's not always this busy, but I reaped a plane crash a couple of minutes before I came for you. You see that man at the Gates? That's Saint Peter. He'll be judging you. Normally he'd be doing it straight away, but I guess you're going to have to get in line and await your turn. Exciting eh? _Which way am I going, up or down? _You never know, I might even see you around the staff room if you get roped into community service. Anyway bud, it's been a pleasure, but as you can imagine I have work to do, souls to reap and all that nonsense. Catch you later…"

With that the Reaper departed back down the corridor and vanished into the light. Steve nervously joined the back of the queue, pondering on the events of his life and wondering if he'd been saintly enough to avoid an eternity of fiery brimstone and little demons poking pitchforks up his bum.

Yes, Saturday meant just one thing to Steven Flack: It was the day that he died.


End file.
